Henry VI.
Morning, beautiful and clear, such as it is only in the transparent regions of the tropics, had just come, when, in obedience to the order of the preceding night, the sailor returned to the cabin of Lorenzo. There he was subjected to a more particular examination than the leisure of the foregone night permitted, and he detailed, with accuracy, the various little incidents which had befallen him since he started from the schooner on his commission.
“The ship,” he said, “is very large, and seems to be well manned. There were several persons on board, who appeared to be passengers. We pretended to be fishing, and we pulled backwards and forwards under her stern as she was sailing slowly before the light wind, so that we had an opportunity of observing her closely, and of seeing that on her stern was marked the ‘Letitia’ of Bristol.”
“The ‘Letitia,’” repeated Lorenzo, and a gloom passed over his countenance, as he remained for a minute or two absorbed by some devouring thought.
“Did she seem to sail well?” at length, he asked.
“Senor, the wind was light, and we could not judge of that; but, from her build, I think she would be a clipper,” answered the man.
After Lorenzo had put some other questions to the sailor he dismissed him, and requested that the master-fisherman should be immediately brought. The latter was, in a short time, conducted to the officer’s cabin, where he was interrogated in the same manner. The fisherman said it was the large ship which appertained to the rich English merchant, and of which he had already given information to the captain. The officer dismissed him also, and sought, at once, the captain’s cabin. He communicated the report of the party, and in answer was ordered to go on deck, immediately, and get ready to set sail. When Lorenzo was detailing to his chief the report of the reconnoitring party, the deepest physiognomist would not have been able to discover a wrinkle or a mark in the face of the young man, or to perceive the slightest change in his dark eyes that could indicate the existence of any particular feeling within. He sat like a statue, as silent and as still, with his piercing eyes fixed on the pupils of the narrator’s, who, from time to time, was obliged to look down in order to relieve himself of the torture in which he was kept by the eagle glance of his chief. But when Lorenzo arrived at the part of the report in which the description of the vessel was made, and the name “Letitia” was mentioned, there might be traced around his lips the rudiments of a sardonic smile of triumph—something like the flash of a ponderous cannon when a match is applied in the darkness of night, that dazzles for a moment, and then suddenly dies away in the thick enshrouding smoke that darkly typifies the terrible gloom of the destruction which springs from its midst.
Having heard the report of his officer, the captain ordered him to proceed, at once, on deck, and get ready to set sail. The officer bowed and retired.
When Lorenzo had quitted the cabin, the captain remained sitting in the same position in which he had received the report, and appeared occupied by some preying thought.
“Yes,” he muttered, “‘Letitia,’ that is the name: he goes in it. Speed well my purpose!”